A Court of Deception and Bloodshed
by A.Jones5
Summary: This is set post A Court of Mist and Fury. Rhysand and his inner circle struggle to formulate war plans, Feyre encounters many difficulties in the Spring court, Nesta and Elaine discover their new lives and relationships. My spin on the third acotar book (though Sarah as will obviously write something 100x better, but anyway) Please review!
1. Prologue

**This is my first fanfiction that won't be a collection of one-shots! (shock horror, I know) This takes place post A Court of Mist and Fury.  
Please review and let me know what you think.**

 **Prologue**

It had been three weeks, two days and six hours since Rhysand had last seen his mate. The separation had been insatiable; with a looming war, Feyre's intolerable sisters and their difficulty to accept and adjust to their new Fae forms, along with the fact that Amren refused to talk to Rhysand for 'abandoning' their High Lady in enemy territory. Cassian's condition added more problems to the equation as he refused to leave his room for a week, then transitioned to trashing everything in his wake, which in turn progressed to brooding about the place, hence unintentionally offering little to no help in the war plans.

Rhysand examined the empty seat alongside him. After five hundred and fifty years he had been offered little more than a few months with his mate, of which she remained ignorant to the bond. Now, surrounded by his closest companions, he still felt alone. On instinct he threw all his force against Feyre's shields but to no avail. Feyre so rarely relaxed her shields now that she was in constant danger of being discovered.

Raising his head, Rhysand was met with her striking blue-grey eyes, knocking the air from him, only to quickly realise that Nesta was staring intently back at him, challenging.  
"So…?" she snapped, cocking her head to the side impatiently.  
"What?" He replied, dazed. As usual he must've smothered himself in his own thoughts.  
"What are you doing about getting our sister back?" She almost growled.  
"Nothing." He replied truthfully. Despite good intentions and longing, the High Lord had made no progress in formulating any sort of a plan. Every attempt only reached several complications and was hence discarded. The horrific but blatant truth taunted him. Rhysand yearned to return Feyre home, to hold her in his arms, intoxicated by their mingled scents, to protect her from the nightmares that still occasionally haunted her.  
"Nothing?!" she exploded. "Well isn't that just fantastic?" Nesta drawled, flinging her arms in the air, with a smooth, agile force she'd not possessed in her past, human form.  
"I'm trying okay? Would you like me to march my forces into the Spring Court and start a full scale war to save your sister- whose well-being _never_ concerned you! _You_ didn't care if she lived or died." Rhysand spat the words, clenching his fists at his side, unable to contain his rage. Shadows curled around him, unfurling over his shoulders, seeping into every crevice of the room. Rhysand hadn't intentionally meant to unleash his dampened glory, but the irony of Nesta's 'concern' sparked his anger. Without a word Nesta shoved her chair from the table and stalked off.  
"Come on, Elaine," she ordered, holding the door open for her quivering, obedient sister, all the while holding the High Lord's stare. The chandelier shook from the rafters as the eldest Archeron sister slammed the door.

Hours later Rhysand still refused to apologise. Equally, Nesta hadn't sought him out to offer an apology. Feyre was the one who deserved an apology from them; for the hardship she'd suffered to keep her family alive, with no gratitude.

Images of Feyre's previous encounters with the High Lord of the Spring Court were Rhysand's only indication to the way events were unfolding across the border, between their courts. He tossed and turned, tortured by thoughts of his mate being bedded or physically harmed by Tamlin. He wondered what progress Feyre was making. Was she being granted freedom? Did they know the extent of her powers? Did Tamlin still truly believe that she loved him? Were they convinced the bond had been broken? The possibilities of their only solid plan crumbling were too great not to cause worry. It was such a risk and there was no proof that it was even worth it! Rhysand constantly questioned whether it would be more worthwhile to retrieve Feyre and live out the remainder of their days together, rather than being separated until war-possibly even death.

To ease his restless mind, which prevented him from sleeping, Rhysand stepped out onto the balcony. Escaping the confines of his magic the cold, crisp air slammed against him from all angles, making him gasp down air quickly. The stillness enveloped him, welcoming him into the darkness. Shadows skittered across the land and Rhysand leaned further into the night, bracing his hands against the cool marble. Stars scattered across the sky, standing guard around the pearl-white, full moon, while the sky was a blend of purple, blue, black and navy. There was nothing but an unaccustomed peace, until Feyre's thoughts came tumbling down the bond at an alarming rate:  
 _HELP!  
Please. _


	2. Chapter 1: Concealed

_**Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, it means a lot. I'm going to try and keep my updates regular, but it'll depend on how busy I am. Anyway this chapter is definitely longer than the last one and I promise the rest will also be long. I kept the first chapter short, just as like an introduction, to see if the story was worthwhile continuing. Please review x**_

 **Ch.1: Concealed**

 _Three weeks before hand (i.e. before Prologue)_

Feyre felt like a caged animal; forced to stay within the confines of the manor walls and contain her magic. On countless occasions she yearned to unleash her fire. Being High Lady only intensified her strength and granted her even easier access to the powers she'd obtained from Rhysand, upon being reborn. To her dismay, she had not yet been granted the privilege to test such a theory.

It astonished her that she had once saw the Spring Court as being her home, where she felt safe, secure and loved. Now it disgusted her. She felt alone, trapped and judged. Many of the servants offered her wary and sympathetic looks, tip-toeing around her and exchanging hushed rumors, not that Feyre particularly cared. They should be afraid of her; she was High Lady.

The only respite she could find, amongst the dreadfully monotonous life she now led, was the beauty of the gardens. The rose bushes, an endless variation of shades, stretched beyond the manor, with a dust trail laced through it. Cherry blossom trees framed the plot of land, while Dahlia bushes were plotted at random across the freshly cut lawn. The interlinked pathways were lined with Hydrangeas, as blue as the sea of the Summer Court. Feyre couldn't help but note the fact that Elain would be in her element there, surrounded by the vast amount of exotic flowers and overgrowth.

Lucien avoided Feyre at the best of times and whenever he decided to accompany her, the red-haired Fae only offered skeptical looks and suggestive comments. Feyre feared he knew more than he was letting on and so avoided him, in the fear that she might expose her true intentions. In truth she missed having him around. She had not noticed his absence when she was surrounded by Mor, Cassian, Azriel and Amren, but now at a loss of any companionship she remembered their easy relationship; the memory hazy considering his calculated demeanour in the months following their return from Under the Mountain.

"Feyre, darling," Tamlin drawled, sitting alongside her on the metal bench.  
"Hello dear," she bit out, almost sweetly. He smiled, flashing his teeth and there was a glimmer in his eyes that Feyre couldn't place. Not lust, but not entirely love either?  
"I know it's difficult…" he heaved a sigh, taking her hands in his, "but can you tell me, again, everything you know about the Night Court?"  
"Tamlin I-" her voice cracked, the home-sickness finally setting in. However, Tamlin interpreted it as fear.  
"Love, it's okay. It can wait until you've rested," he offered, resting a hand on my shoulder, moving to stand.  
"No! I've rested enough." Feyre protested and continued to explain key elements of the Night Court, not the aspects that could prove advantageous to Tamlin-such as Velaris- instead only providing limited information- like the horrors of the Court of Nightmares.  
"What…what of your plans with the King of Hybern?" Feyre asked warily, wanting to discover more while appearing innocent in her intentions.  
"His forces are to arrive in three weeks' time and use our court as a stepping stone." _Our court:_ the words made her cringe.  
"You're just going to let him invade human territory?" Feyre pressed for more information, astonished at his selfish motives.  
"Feyre you're safe now, that's all that matters," he crooned, caressing her face in his hands. She recoiled slightly, trying to go unnoticed.  
"But they have no protection! They're defenseless!" She argued, holding his gaze and clenching her fists. For the first time since she arrived she felt a calming glimmer caress her through the bond, bouncing off her indestructible shields. Regardless of how much she yearned to freely communicate with Rhys, or feel his presence, she couldn't risk leaving her mind unguarded, considering that Tamlin could possess any powers now that he was allied with the King of Hybern. Tamlin's claws escaped their confines and his chest rose and fell rapidly while his nostrils flared.  
"Feyre…" he growled in a warning tone, glaring at her. She remained un-moving, crossing her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow, questioning. Feyre no longer felt dominated or afraid of him. She was equally, if not more, powerful than the conceited, lying, selfish Lord in front of her. "What I say goes." He gritted out, with a sense of finality.  
"Even if it costs the lives of thousands of humans- my father included?" She countered in a deadly calm voice, barely above a whisper.  
" _Enough!_ Hybern's forces shall arrive in three weeks' time, whether we like it or not! You are _never_ returning to the Night Court and this is the only way to ensure that." Tamlin was standing now, looming over her, claws peering over his knuckles, breathing in an animalistic way. Before she could argue any more he stalked off. The potential truth behind his words- that she might _never_ return home-terrified her more than the prospect of being so near the King again.

Feyre gathered her skirts and wandered deeper into the overgrowth of the surrounding land, needing to calm her burning need to unleash her magic. She knew that she was playing a dangerous game; needing to maintain the façade that she still truly loved Tamlin, convince them that she had been under Rhysand's influence and that she posed no real threat. All the while trying to mask the scent of the mating bond and keep a glamour on the swirling, black ink tattooed on her right arm, signifying her eternal love for her High Lord, as well as her new title; High Lady of the Night Court. Rhysand once told her that their bargain bond, made Under the Mountain, was a cobweb in comparison to the mating bond, but yet Feyre found herself staring at her left arm, lonesome of the mark she had once loathed.

Tendrils of smoke circled around her, billowing in every direction. She was a whisper of darkness in a golden city. Flames licked their way around her hands and crept up her forearms. Feyre exhaled a long breathe and returned to normal. The smoke retreated and the flames quenched. Longing for the day she would no longer have to live a lie, she returned to the manor.  
 _Soon,_ Feyre promised herself. _Soon._


	3. Chapter 2: The Casualty

**Firstly THANKS SO MUCH to everyone who is supporting this story! This chapter is back to Rhysand's POV 3 Sorry for any spelling mistakes by the way. When I'm typing it I'm using British-English spellings, and then when I transfer it to the document manager it tells me that tons of my spellings are wrong cause it wants to register it as American-English. Please review and let me know what you think of the story xx**

 **Ch.2: The Casualty** ****

Rhysand noticed Amren strutting into the room and settling herself in the corner. He didn't bother to go over and attempt conversing, knowing it would be pointless and only result in her attempts at degrading his love for Feyre. Instead he focused his energy on the casualty. Cassian lay on his stomach, twitching every time a bout of pain washed over him. It was painful to watch. The wings lay in feathered ruins and it seemed unlikely that there was any hope of salvaging them. There was no known cure, but Rhysand still hated leaving his brother in pain until some antidote could be located- whenever that would be. Cassian's condition, known to the King, made him even more vulnerable and an easy target. The inner circle's lack of action could potentially cost Cassian his life.  
"You can go, I'll be here," Mor offered gently, appearing alongside him.  
"It's okay, I want to be…" Rhysand began but she silenced him.  
"There's nothing we can do but keep him company. You have other serious matters to attend to," she reminded gently. He left without another word, sensing the tense implication of her words. Regardless of their unwavering loyalty for the past centuries each member of his inner circle- especially Amren and Mor- felt betrayed by the rash decision made by their High Lord and Lady. Rhysand was baffled that they accused him and claimed that he was at fault. It's not like he _wanted_ to send Feyre into enemy territory!

After having been dismissed, Rhysand decided to tackle other situations, first and foremost; the war…or, on second thought, Feyre.  
 _Feyre, darling?_  
Silence.  
 _Fay-ruh?_ He dragged out each syllable, awaiting a response. But none came. Rhysand tried assuring himself that she was only keeping her guard up, but- for the first time- being kept in the dark was terrifying. A glimmer of love and assurance trickled down the bond, diluted in comparison to before, but still there. Feelings were enough to keep him content for only so long, but he _needed_ to be able to freely communicate with her! Especially considering that it was too soon to start planning her escape, he decided. Feyre would hardly have gathered enough valuable information, in the short time since she'd arrived, to prove that their separation hadn't been completely useless and tormenting. He blamed most of his torment on the bond. While he presumed Feyre was having difficulty being apart from her mate, the mere prospect of her being miles away, in the home of his sworn enemy, could potentially send him into an uncontrollable rage. But, somehow, with great difficulty and decades of self-control and restrain he managed to keep his actions in-check. Shaking those fears from thought, he retreated to his study in order to make some progress in relation to war plans.

 _Grumbling about missing out on the chance to meet up with his mother and sister that weekend, Rhysand leaned lazily against the wall, watching the Illyrians training. The day was calm and serene as a gentle breeze combed through his purple-black hair. He gazed longingly at the crest of the mountain, where he imagined his sister sitting herself down at the kitchen table while his mother prepared lunch. Rhysand would much rather be involved in such simple, domestic jobs rather than stuck there, overseeing endless training._

The scene changed.

 _The cabin was a bloodbath._ _  
_ _The blood of his loved ones splattered the walls._ _  
_ _Nearest to Rhysand lay his mother's crumpled body. Her severed head was nowhere to be seen. His stomach churned at the realisation that there were slashes across her wingless back. The remains of her corpse was strewn near that of his sister; arm outstretched for her helpless daughter. Slowly he turned towards his sister. Too young- centuries too young! Her petite body was curled in on itself resembling the fetal_ _position. Similarly, her wings had been brutally carved from her back and, along with her head, were nowhere to be found._

 _Time slowed. Rhysand couldn't breathe. It should be him lying there, savagely murdered. Not once in their whole lives had they done anything to deserve this! His mother was one of the kindest people he would ever meet. Her generosity wasn't only limited to their family, but instead extended to every member of the Night Court. Her warm eyes would always provide a calming element amidst the tense atmosphere elicited from his father's presence. She was, in a sense, his savior. Rhysand moved towards his sister, again. Barely a century old, she had done nothing but followed in her mother's footsteps._

 _But…there was another body. Fearful he approached said body. His mother and sister were the only two who were supposed to be here, so who else had also fallen victim to the slaughter? Unlike the others, this body bore no marks of having lost her wings. Her slim form was facing the wall furthest from him and the fact that she too had lost her head made identifying her all the more difficult. Gingerly he turned the corpse over using his shoe. The only feature that registered with him was the mark on her right arm. Intricate and beautiful swirls of black ink crept up the grey arm. Feyre._

The sweat clung to every crevice of Rhysand's body as he stretched his stiff neck. With everything that had happened in the past week he had retired to bed every night, exhausted, only to find that he could only fall asleep for an hour without waking abruptly due to Feyre's absence. Such irregular sleep patterns resulted in unintentional and spontaneous naps each day, usually full of nightmares and memories. The nightmare fueled by that ancient memory, however, had been tampered with, for Feyre had not even been born at the time of his mother and sister's deaths.

The High Lord re-examined the scene before him. Tattered, ancient maps, curling with age at the corners, lay scattered across his stone desk. Maps, which unfortunately, only showed the way previous wars had been fought, lost or won. But none, not one 'reliable' map, could predict the King of Hybern's next move. _Perhaps it is you who should make the next move!_ A part of him taunted. But how? How could he advance his forces without inflicting major loss upon his court- his friends and family?

Rhysand persisted through the next monotonous hour, trying relentlessly to come to some solution. There was no obvious course of action that could save all those he loves, protect his court and defeat the King of Hybern. It was simply impossible. The daunting prospect loomed over him- and would continue to do so until resolved, whether successfully or not. So many people expected him to succeed, not to mention his own desire to prevent the king from rising to ultimate power.

Eventually the lines and coordinates began to blur together, while the floor began to sway beneath him. Holding his head in his hands, Rhysand rose from his chair, stiff and agitated, and wandered from his study, aimlessly. Hushed voices drifted down the hallway, so out of blatant curiosity he followed them. Rhysand arrived at Cassian's bedroom door, where he'd been countless hours beforehand, only to find- of all people- that Nesta Archeron was crouched at the foot of the bed, staring intensely into Cassian's glazed eyes.

"Why?" He asked in a broken voice.  
"Why what?" She asked in a resentful tone. The muscles in Cassian's back twitched involuntarily before he gritted out his response:  
"Why don't you look at me with pitiful eyes, like I'm a broken, used, good-for-nothing, old toy?" His voice became thick and heavy with anger and pain. Nesta hesitated. Her stone-cold glare softened and she glanced around the room, as though looking for her answer.  
"Your wings shouldn't define what kind of warrior you are…" she spoke softly and hesitantly. "I look at you and I only see the man who offered to do all in his power to protect my sister and me. I see a noble man who respected two human lives over that of the Queens. You sacrificed your wings in order to protect your friends and honestly that kind of sacrifice is more noble than any other warrior." She spoke in barely a whisper, not unsure of her words, but almost afraid to voice such thoughts. With a shaky hand he caressed her cheek, as an expression of utter shock and love passed over his face. His touch, however, seemed to break whatever trance she was under, for she flinched away and scrambled backwards, in search of an exit. Rhysand quickly disappeared into the shadows before they would notice.


	4. Chapter 3: Subject to Him

**Right I know I haven't updated in ages! I had intended to update very regularly throughout the summer, but instead I had a summer job and I was just soooo busy that I had no time! So I'm really sorry about that. Here's the next chapter anyway and I hope you like it.**

 **Ch.3: Subject to Him**

The horizon blurred, as the white sky consumed the sea, making it appear as though the quant town was merely a painting on a blank canvas. The brush felt heavy in her hand as her stiff wrist swept back and forth. Feyre had managed to convince herself that it would somehow elicit a sense of normality amongst the monotonous, pretence that her life had become. In truth, it had taken her mind off of her current situation. Reality had only begun to set in. At first it had felt like a temporary predicament, as though her stay would be short lived and deep down she believed that she would be returning home to her court in a matter of days. When in reality, she had not even made contact with her mate in several days. Feeling alone in a place she had once described as home sickened Feyre, but unfortunately the feeling was one she had grown accustomed to.

Once upon a time she had been excluded from the affairs of the Spring Court due to being human, now the reasons and circumstances were entirely different. There was no one to turn to, or offer comfort. In fact, now that she thought about it she hadn't set eye on one servant since her return. Had they been excused from their duties? Had they fled the wrath of their High Lord? Or had something worse happened? It was difficult to tell considering Tamlin's random bursts of outrage. Anything could've happened to her allies. As a result, Feyre was forced to endure the rare presence of Lucien and Tamlin.

 _Perhaps…_ she thought, _the lack of company could prove advantageous._ With that in mind, Feyre decided to track down information. The sooner she gathered anything valuable, the sooner she could return home. Home. The thought dazed her momentarily. She could imagine the day she would once again be in Rhysand's arms, surrounded by the inner circle- her closest friends. Azriel would quickly reside to the shadows, acting as though he was unaffected, when in reality he would be equally as overjoyed as the rest. Mor would of course be all over her High Lady, much to Rhysand's annoyance, considering he endured the absence of his mate. Cassian would of course encase her in his bone crushing hug. While Amren wouldn't unveil her true emotions- though each of them wouldn't question her gratefulness, seeing as they had endured her critic of Rhysand's actions.

"Feyre," for the first time since her arrival, Feyre would've preferred Lucien's company. Tamlin emerged from his study; hair tousled and shirt hanging open. Before the sight would've provoked explicit thoughts, but now it exposed the man he truly was. He had clearly been working out since her departure, as his once lean and toned physique was now rippled with bulging muscles- yet in an unpleasing manner. His face however, looked more gaunt and haggard, as his eyes were rimmed with shadows, and his cheeks hallow. Her actions seemed more obvious now.  
"Yes?" she finally replied, already inching away from him, ever so slightly.  
"It's late, why aren't you asleep? I thought you wanted your rest," he queried. His domineering and manipulative side now shone through clearer- or rather Feyre was no longer blind to it.  
"I couldn't sleep, so I decided a walk might ease my mind," she lied swiftly. He glanced at her attire; dress splattered with paint, and her skin cracked and smudged from her previous task also. Feyre didn't bother to mention that she had been painting- that much was obvious. It wasn't that she thought he would be displeased by the thought either. Provided she was locked in her bedroom or painting room, it didn't bother Tamlin either way, she supposed.  
"Perhaps some company might help?" he offered, but Feyre detected the underlying meaning. She had now been back for two weeks, and clearly he wanted to advance his progress and regain the level of intimacy they once shared.  
"Thank you," Feyre bit back the sneer and forced a smile. "I think perhaps some time _alone_ might be best," she declined politely. Without a word he grabbed her by the arm, roughly, and dragged her into the study.  
"Feyre," he growled, ignoring her previous statement. Feyre struggled against his hold. _Appear weak, appear vulnerable, act human._ She reminded herself. For if she revealed her true potential, then their plan would be void and she might as well have lost the war for everyone. Feyre had to remain underestimated and keep Tamlin in the dark, in order to succeed in her act of deception. His lips came crashing down on her skin with a bruising pressure. She squirmed, helplessly. He yanked her by the wrists and held her arms in place against the wall; trapped. Subject to his power, Feyre could do little else but allow his hands to roam her body, as his teeth grazed her collar bone.  
"Tamlin, please…I'm not ready." She pleaded, sickened at what he had reduced her to. But her requests fell on deaf ears. He proceeded in unlacing her dress with anything but gentle hands and she could see no escape as to what was about to happen. A crash could be heard downstairs but the High Lord's full attention was on his prey. Tamlin kissed her breasts and she tried shuffling away. _BANG!_ The lust that had dominated his expression vanished, replaced by a glazed over appearance. He stared blankly at her and without a word, stood. After making himself appear respectful, Tamlin disappeared leaving a half-naked Feyre, stunned and laying on the carpet.

Feyre's skin had turned blotchy and red in places as she stepped out of the bath. Her agile fingers were now wrinkled looking, after having spent the past two hours in the water, scrubbing her skin until it burned. Her efforts were fruitless, as she still felt his sickening touch upon her. Feyre couldn't help but feel grateful as to whatever had summoned him, but that glazed over expression played across her mind again and again. His demeanour had changed in a matter of seconds, but Feyre couldn't comprehend why. Perhaps figuring that out would be the first step to finding the information they needed.


End file.
